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92 | In This Our World Wedded Bliss13 “O come and be my mate!” said the Eagle to the Hen, “I love to soar, but then I want my mate to rest Forever in the nest!” Said the Hen, “I cannot fly, I have no wish to try, But I joy to see my mate careening through the sky!” They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!” And the Hen sat, the Eagle soared, alone. “O come and be my mate!” said the Lion to the Sheep; “My love for you is deep! I slay, a Lion should, But you are mild and good!” Said the sheep, “I do no ill— Could not, had I the will— But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour and kill.” They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!” And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone. “O come and be my mate!” said the Salmon to the Clam; “You are not wise, but I am. I know sea and stream as well; You know nothing but your shell.” Said the Clam, “I’m slow of motion, But my love is all devotion, And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!” They wed, and cried, “Ah, this is Love, my own!” And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone. The Holy Stove O the soap-vat is a common thing! The pickle-tub is low! The loom and wheel have lost their grace In falling from the dwelling-place To mills where all may go! The bread-tray needeth not your love; The wash-tub wide doth roam; Even the oven free may rove; But bow ye down to the Holy Stove, The Altar of the Home! Before it bend the worshippers, And wreaths of parsley twine; Above it still the incense curls, And a passing train of hired girls WOM A N | 93 Do service at the shrine. We toil to keep the altar crowned With dishes new and nice, And Art and Love, and Time and Truth, We offer up, with Health and Youth, In daily sacrifice. Speak not to us of a fairer faith, Of a lifetime free from pain. Our fathers always worshipped here, Our mothers served this altar drear, And still we serve amain. Our earliest dreams around it cling, Bright hopes that childhood sees, And memory leaves a vista wide Where Mother’s Doughnuts14 rank beside The thought of Mother’s Knees.15 The wood-box hath no sanctity; No glamour gilds the coal; But the Cook-Stove is a sacred thing To which a reverent faith we bring And serve with heart and soul. The Home’s a temple all divine, By the Poker and the Hod!16 The Holy Stove is the altar fine, The wife the priestess at the shrine— Now who can be the god? The Mother’s Charge She raised her head. With hot and glittering eye, “I know,” she said, “that I am going to die. Come here, my daughter, while my mind is clear. Let me make plain to you your duty here; My duty once—I never failed to try— But for some reason I am going to die.” She raised her head, and, while her eyes rolled wild, Poured these instructions on the gasping child: “Begin at once—don’t iron sitting down— Wash your potatoes when the fat is brown— Monday, unless it rains—it always pays To get fall sewing done on the right days— A carpet-sweeper and a little broom— Save dishes—wash the summer dining-room With soda—keep the children out of doors— The starch is out—beeswax on all the floors— ...

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